


Shame

by eluna



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bad Sex, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, First Time, Incest Kink, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Masturbation, No Underage Sex, Non-Penetrative Sex, Orgasmic Dysfunction, POV Sam Winchester, Past Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Pre-Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 01, Sexual Dysfunction, Sexual Repression, Underage Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 07:57:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7793581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eluna/pseuds/eluna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam can never decide how much he actually enjoys jerking off, even the beginning part before everything goes wrong, like now. It’s more that it’s less uncomfortable to pay attention to the thing, at least at first, than to ignore it entirely and wind up stressed and distracted and pained for god knows how long before it finally, finally subsides. He wishes he could classify the sensation as a relief, but the thing just picks up even more intensity to race alongside his pulse; his breath hitches; adrenaline and fear stab into him, followed without warning by that badwrong he’s never been able to pinpoint, tides rushing toward something he doesn’t understand, wants but doesn’t, real terror bowling him over as he tries to jack through it but it’s so much, grip tightening, bottom dropping out, and he yanks his hand away but the loss hurts way down inside, sweat-sticky and gapingly empty and whimpering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shame

**Author's Note:**

> Not my first rodeo, but I'm an FFN transplant and this is my first time publishing SPN and sex scenes as well. I researched beforehand for the male puberty/sex/body stuff that I wanted to include, but lol I'm a lesbian, so please let me know if there are any medical inaccuracies that need fixing! Apparently men can have orgasm disorders, though it's a lot less common in men than in women, but I had trouble finding anything to highlight any visceral differences experienced by men v. women to compare my own experiences to and adapt accordingly.
> 
> No underage sex, and the Wincest doesn't come until Sam's an adult, but please be forewarned that the first couple of scenes deal with underage masturbation/awkward sex talks, during which Sam is extremely underage (3-4) at the youngest.

Sam can’t be more than three or four years old the time Dad sees him rubbing _there_. It’s a rare day that the two of them are alone together, Dean off at school and Dad between jobs pouring over newspapers with a pen, and Dad glances up to find Sam sprawled belly-down on the pullout couch, rutting hard and slow and muffled against the cushions in time with the dull throb twisting below his waist. “Cut that out,” Dad rasps, harshly enough that Sam jerks himself upright more from shock than from obedience.

Neglected, the thrum between his legs contorts into an angry ache wholly unlike the contented sparks Sam’s been learning to coax out these last few weeks. “How come?” he whines, shifting in his seat.

“That’s dirty, understand? You don’t touch down there, and you sure as hell don’t do it around other people. Where did you pick this up?”

“Nowhere,” Sam huffs, twin clouds of defiance and something _badwrong_ pooling over him. He’ll come to identify that unnamed feeling as shame, then, later on, conflate it with filth and desire and loneliness.

Dad is all hard lines and harder resolve. “I won’t have my boys grow up to be cheap whores,” he growls, and Sam may not understand what Dad’s saying but knows it can’t mean anything good. “Now go wash up, and don’t you ever let me catch you doing that _ever_ again. There’ll be consequences next time, you hear me?”

He’s not lying, Sam discovers a month later when Dad gets back early from a job and walks in on Sam grinding the heel of his hand up and down the length of himself. Stripped bare from his hips to his knees and flung over Dad’s lap, Sam screams bloody murder and squirms beneath each crack of Dad’s hand against his bottom, hard nub jostling at Dad’s leg, stimulation and denial and white-hot agony all crossing wires. It’s not until Dean gets back from school and stumbles in on the sight of them that Sam starts to cry, big ugly sobs that drench his face in saltwater and paint his eyes blood-red.

“You must’ve done something _really_ bad to get Dad that mad at you,” Dean muses in an almost awestruck whisper after lights-out that night, wrapping Sam up like a ragdoll under his arm and into his chest like he always does when he thinks Sam is hurt. “Dad never spanks if he can avoid it.”

“Something,” Sam echoes. He takes a big breath in of Dean’s smelly underarm, flooding his mouth with spicy big brother and safety, then turns his face away sharply.

It’ll be years before Sam disobeys Dad’s order, and even then, his body stays a little bit broken. For a long time, Sam can’t decide whether it’s punishment or penance, or whether those mean the same thing.

* * *

Dean is a few months shy of twelve the first time he has a wet orgasm. Sam knows this (though he wishes he didn’t) because Dean tells him so straightaway, emerging from the shower all flush-faced and wobbly-kneed in a not-quite-clean pair of sweatpants. He seems so excited, Sam’s half surprised that Dean didn’t save his spunk to shove under Sam’s nose and wield like a trophy.

“That’s gross, Dean, I don’t want to hear about your weird body habits,” Sam says, shuddering.

“What, don’t you jack off? I thought everybody does,” Dean replies, barely fazed. He flops down on his back in the other bed and rolls onto his side to face Sam, eyes alight.

“Well, I don’t. It’s nasty.”

“’S not nasty,” Dean persists. “Everybody gets hard, even little kids, and I heard if you don’t take care of it fast enough, your balls can hurt bad enough they get screwed up permanently.”

“Can’t be true. I never ‘take care’ of anything, and my… I’m _fine_ ,” stutters Sam. Dean rolls his eyes, reaches out to switch off the lamp on the nightstand between the beds. Then, before Sam can help himself: “You’ve been doing it since you were little?”

Dean grunts as he fidgets in bed and gets comfortable as he can under the thin sheets. “Yeah, long as I can remember. Even coming dry, Sammy, it’s like… it’s just shockwaves all over, just _good_ like nothing you’ve ever felt before, and gets you all—all blissed-out and spacey and just, just _happy_. You gotta try it, Sammy, ‘s gonna feel so good. You’ve really never had one before?”

Sam just pushes his face into the pillow, willing the swelling in his prick to go down, please god _please_ before Dean notices anything. “Why are you even telling me this? I thought guys weren’t supposed to talk to other guys about this stuff,” he says, muffled heavily by the pillow.

“You’re Sammy. I share everything with you,” Dean says simply.

 _Liar_ , Sam wants to scream, because if Dean were really such a giver, he’d be honest with Sam about what Dad does when he leaves on jobs, he’d let Sam in on his little grownup talks that he has off to the side with Dad whenever they’re driving somewhere new and would _say something_ all the times Dad gets mad at Sam and makes him call him “sir” and backhands him across the face for asking too many questions. Instead, he just mutters, “I’m going to sleep,” and turns to face the wall, focusing anywhere but on his briefs squeezing tighter around him.

* * *

After Cassie, Dean twists his lips into that stupid, deflecting half-smile and ducks out of the motel early to get shitfaced and screwed. By the time he makes it back to the room, reeking of sweat with the girl’s underwear literally hanging out of his jean pocket, it’s quarter past two A.M. and Sam’s still up, three beers deep and chipping at a fifth of whiskey.

“Knew you’d be drinking, I’d’ve asked you to come with,” Dean greets him, shucking the jacket and jeans before he crowds into the corner Sam’s made for himself on the sandpaper-shag carpet.

Sam just passes him the bottle, watches the lines of Dean’s throat work as he takes a swig. “So you could ditch me for a lay twenty minutes in? I’m good.” His voice is cracked and shot to hell, cheeks and neck and breast flaming up, and this is why when Sam _really_ wants to drink, he drinks alone.

“What, are you jealous?” snickers Dean. When Sam snatches the bottle back for more, he feigns affront with big hands and bigger eyes.

“Of all the V.D. you’re gonna catch one of these days, not so much.”

“I get myself checked out every six months, thank _you_ ,” Dean says.

“Plus I’ve still got that orgasm thing.”

Dean’s grin falters a little at that, and shit, Sam’s got to work on his post-drunk filter. “Still? I figured you and Jess—”

“Did other stuff,” he mutters, and the sense memories hit in short succession: her walls clenching repeatedly around nothing as he drags circles over her clit; her rich belly laugh at pubic hairs clinging sticky to his cheeks; the _please-talk-to-me_ ’s and _what-do-I-do-wrong_ ’s damp against his back. It stings, and he lets Dean shrug and tip his head against the wall, lets his fingertips drop to Dean’s scalp and scratch lightly when he hears his brother start to lightly snore.

He doesn’t remember drifting off, but must, because the next thing Sam knows the clock is flashing three-thirty and there’s a crick in his neck where it’s twisted to let Sam’s head rest on top of Dean’s. Disentangling himself from Dean as best as he can, he struggles to his feet and the four paces to the bed he’s claimed as his, groaning under his breath at the stiffy chafing against his thighs.

Sam can never decide how much he actually enjoys jerking off, even the beginning part before everything goes _wrong_ , like now. It’s more that it’s less uncomfortable to pay attention to the thing, at least at first, than to ignore it entirely and wind up stressed and distracted and _pained_ for god knows how long before it finally, finally subsides. He wishes he could classify the sensation as a relief, but the thing just picks up even more intensity to race alongside his pulse; his breath hitches; adrenaline and fear stab into him, followed without warning by that _badwrong_ he’s never been able to pinpoint, tides rushing toward something he doesn’t understand, wants but _doesn’t_ , real terror bowling him over as he tries to jack through it but it’s so much, grip tightening, bottom dropping out, and he yanks his hand away but the loss _hurts_ way down inside, sweat-sticky and gapingly empty and whimpering.

“’S wrong, Sammy?”

Ah, fuck. “Thought you were sleeping.”

“Woke up. Y’okay? Sound hurt.”

“Fine. Go back to sleep,” he protests, but Dean and his goddamn Sammy-Spidey-sense seem to have decided that Sam’s very much _not_ fine, and Dean lurches to his feet and hangs there unsteadily for a moment before tumbling on top of Sam’s covers.

Sam rolls to face the other way, and it doesn’t take long for Dean to get with the program. “Oh,” he says dully. Then: “So you… what, just _can’t_ , even if you try to?”

“Pretty much,” says Sam, curving in on himself, willing the damn boner to go down already, but as usual, it’s not listening to him.

Neither is Dean. “But you try anyway.”

“Hurts more to ignore it.”

Dean lets out a little sigh at Sam’s back, and a few seconds later, hesitant fingers clutch at Sam’s bicep, coaxing him to turn back over. “Can’t you…”

“We tried seeing a sex therapist for a few months at Stanford. Didn’t work. Forget about it, Dean, it’s fine.”

Finally succeeding in settling Sam onto his back, Dean curls in over him and rubs hands up and down Sam’s arms, sides, shoulders. It’s a bracing gesture, firm and warm through the sheet and two layers of shirts, but it sends shockwaves through Sam’s anxious body. “Let me help?”

He speaks so quietly that it takes a moment for Sam to realize what Dean’s asking, and then he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel. Shock, probably, but it’s not registering: it’s never a surprise for Dean to demonstrate a total lack of personal boundaries, especially where Sam’s concerned. “You can’t fix me.”

“Just wanna make a place where it feels safer to—I don’t want to say to _fail_ , but you know. I, um. I’ve been with women who faked their orgasms before. Nobody should have to think they owe anybody that.” Dean stills his hands where they’re squeezing Sam at his elbows, his intent gaze darting from eye to eye, and Sam knows then that he could never turn Dean down, not really.

It’s nothing like Sam would have imagined—and he tells himself firmly that he _hasn’t_ imagined this, even if the nastiest shit _was_ what did it for him when he’d read Jess’s erotica novels by himself in campus housing, butt stuff and tongues in places private enough to create the illusion of intimacy. But then, if Sam ever knew how to differentiate between the things he wanted and the ones he didn’t, he sure as hell can’t anymore, all stringing together in a guilt-coil of _shouldn’t-be-doing-this_.

It feels—weird. Not gross, exactly, but weird. He’s so desensitized to seeing Dean lay it thick on waitresses and sorority girls that it’s surreal to have that mouth turned on Sam’s own skin instead, plucking violin kisses down Sam’s neck and shoulder as Dean tugs the necklines of Sam’s shirts slowly away from his chin, and who would have thought that horndog, one-night-stand _Dean_ would be so keen on the little touches that come before sex as Sam has always known in—but Sam supposes that Dean’s goals, here, are different than the ones he has with women. Dean’s never bathed or changed or sutured any of his flings the way he’s cared for Sam’s body all their lives, and instead of seeming uncomfortable because of it, the soft presses of Dean’s mouth are reverent, protective.

Sam sags into it, tells himself again to stop thinking about his erection and focus on the things that feel nice elsewhere. And _doesn’t_ it feel nice; it’s been so long, since Jess, always quick to pick a fight and assume that Sam would do better if only he could _want_ her bad enough, and…

“ _Sammy_ , Sammy, hey—” and then Dean is drawing upward and squashing Sam’s cheeks in his palms, flattening his body into a hard line over Sam’s. He doesn’t seem to mind that Sam’s dick is jabbing hotly into his own soft one, and for that Sam’s grateful, though still moderately humiliated. “Feel bad?”

His reply leaks out after a few pained moments. “No—feel shame,” Sam admits, quiet and cracking.

Dean’s face crumples into something Sam doesn’t recognize on him. “Never ashamed of you,” he murmurs, and then he braces his forearms on either side of Sam’s head and presses their mouths together.

Sam can feel his heartbeat picking up again, dizzy with it, and clumsily makes his lips move around one of Dean’s, but it’s no use; he’s not kissed another person in months, and you’d think it would be harder to forget how, but Sam’s _nervous_ and, honestly, probably still drunk from before he’d slept. The kid who taught him how to tie his shoelaces has got his goddamn tongue teasing at the corners of Sam’s mouth, sucking Sam’s lower lip in between his teeth and nibbling, and it’s so much.

He scrabbles at the hem of Dean’s flannel, but Dean knocks his hands aside like the four years of weightlifting he put in at the Stanford gym were for nothing, forever Dean’s baby brother, easy to manhandle. Sam shivers a little. “’S for you, not me,” Dean tells him.

“I don’t want to do this if you don’t want it,” says Sam, forehead beginning to crease.

Dean sneaks a kiss to the corner of Sam’s mouth, tipping him back off balance. “Never said I didn’t want it.” He lands a longer one full on, pulling back just when Sam thinks he might get the hang of this again, and adds, “Feels good to do for you.”

Sam’s protest of “But that’s not—” cuts off with a gasp when Dean latches onto a mouthful of slack skin at Sam’s neck and _sucks_ , hard. “I’m not a damn hunt; you don’t have to bite so hard, Dean, Jesus.”

“No rough stuff, got it,” Dean says with a grin, a real one this time. “Guess it’s just me who’s got their wires crossed there.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam reaches up with effort—his arms feel like lead, sated—and yanks a handful of Dean’s hair to test. Dean’s ensuing groan is quickly followed by a sharp poke to Sam’s hip, and Sam’s face instantly heats up.

“Kinky fucker,” Dean smirks. “C’mere, let go for me.”

So Sam does.

The orgasm bit (or, rather, the lack thereof) goes about as badly as expected, but not before Sam discovers at least two erogenous zones he didn’t know he had, and Dean patiently rubs his back and hums Pink Floyd in his ear as Sam quakes. “Sorry,” he tries to tell Dean after a few minutes of it, but Dean just shakes his head vigorously before planting his face in the crook of Sam’s neck.

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” he mumbles, and for the next few minutes, maybe that can be the truth.


End file.
